Christmas Redux
by Catherine Pugh
Summary: Christmas always sends Molly into a deep depression, but gets a text asking her to come to 221B.


If she were conscious enough to process it, Molly Hooper was thoroughly enjoying a mid-afternoon catnap on Christmas eve. For the first time in what had been a rotten few weeks, she finally had a weekend off.

Christmas was never a good time for Molly Hooper, especially since her beloved father died. She still cringed whenever she gave a fleeting though about the Sherlock Holmes Christmas Party Disaster, and its sequel, Boxing Day Devastation. Last Christmas, she had hosted a party of her own for Sherlock's small circle of friends, and they all devolved into drunken crying. Not being around people this year would make it a bit more bearable. Especially after breaking up with what was likely her last chance at fairy-tale happiness. Poor Tom.

_She'd been seeing Tom about a year and a half in the time Sherlock was gone. Tall, handsome, good-natured. He should have been perfect. On paper, he was. He lavished her with attention, sent her flowers, remembered important details, and made life generally easy for her. But although she loved Tom dearly, there was something missing between them: chemistry. He often waved off her concerns, especially when Leeds was playing. He didn't particularly like her cat, Toby – and would occasionally make rude comments about him. _

She made herself some tea, curled up by the window and picked up a nice murder mystery her cousin Diana had gotten her for Christmas. Diana never failed to cheer her up. She plugged in her little tabletop tree and smiled. Fairylights always cheered her up a bit.

But the stillness of the room, the plush of the settee, and the cosiness of her afghan lulled her to sleep by the twentieth page. It wasn't an unwelcome substitute. For twenty-five blissful dream-minutes, Miss Hooper found herself starring in a romantic period drama with Richard Armitage, based on a uniquely Molly Hooper dream-amalgamation of 'Jane Eyre' and 'Ghostbusters' (two films she'd watched earlier that day).

"_Oh, Mister Rochester! A grey alpaca fighter pack! I don't deserve your kindness!"_

"_No, darling, but the Sta-Puft Marshmallow man deserved your badassery!"_

"_I'm afraid the entire population of New York City may find themselves dead from diabetic causes."_

"_Worth it. Worth the fire, you brilliant woman."_

Molly smiled in her sleep as Dream-Richard kissed her passionately. "Mmmm-mm," she murmured drowsily. "Best day ever, I have to teach the children…"

Rudely, the phone on the table next to her pinged, snapping her out of the dream. _Too bad_, she thought. Those dark, Byronic types were forever her downfall.

She frowned when she saw the alert.

_221B. Tonight. 6:30. – SH_

"Bloody hell, Sherlock," she muttered, thinking about what to respond.

_Thank you, but I don't feel like going to a party. - M_

_Not a party. Can't go into detail, busy at present. Please come? – SH_

Molly assessed her situation for a second, as she felt the heat rise from her neck to her face with Sherlock's request.

_Since Sherlock's return, he had generally been friendlier and gentler to her, maybe even a little more jovial, if one could believe it. She liked the attention, she admitted. She had tossed aside all pretence of nervousness around him. He joked back with her in the lab, and they'd become quite chummy. It turned out he was extraordinarily funny, in that dry way she liked. One day he had done an impression of Mister Humphries from "Are You Being Served?" that was so unexpected and so spot-on that she'd spat out her tea in a real belly laugh. Sherlock looked very pleased with himself that afternoon. _

_Molly had made no mention of Tom when Sherlock returned, though she was sure he suspected she had someone in her life. The four pounds she'd gained; the ease around Sherlock's company, and one day…the ring he spotted on her finger. One quick glance down at her hand the day she came in wearing it threw him into a tempest. Sherlock stormed around in silence, refused to talk to her, and broke off in a torrent of swearing and smashing things when he accidentally ruined his experiment. He lashed out at her, accusing her of wearing her hair too long. Molly had to ban him from the lab "until he cooled off a bit." He stared at her briefly with wild, angry, heartbroken eyes, before stomping out the door and disappearing into the night._

She hadn't heard from him since. That was nearly a month ago.

_Molly knew in that instant that Tom and she weren't meant to be.. Tom was only a Sherlock facsimile, made from a Xerox machine low on toner. Physically, they could be almost twins, but Tom's personality was just so…ordinary. _

_She was a bloody morgue attendant, not a damsel in distress. When she thought about the marriage proposal, something straight out of a Disney film with kneeling in public and clapping bystanders, she felt sick. Deep inside she knew she never wanted to be a cliche. She'd be trapped. She'd be resigned to a life of football scores, beers with the boys, and sacrificing those precious hours of silent contemplation. No, it had to end._

_And so, soon afterward, she pushed Tom away. Returned the sapphire ring (she had to admit, it wasn't even her taste). Shut herself away in her flat for the past month. Avoided all contact with anyone not involved with work._

Now, after weeks of feeling sorry for herself and occasionally popping out to the shops for frozen curries, came this bloody text from Sherlock.

She supposed it was his halfarsed attempt at an "apology."

She typed her response.

_Ok. See you then. – M_

-o-

Molly freshened up a bit and decided to walk to Baker Street instead of getting a cab. She knew it was a mistake. The Christmas songs emanating from shops along her route made her feel rather depressed. Each hopeful-faced father and daughter she encountered on her walk felt like a little stab. She choked back a few tears upon hearing a song her dad liked. She loathed how Christmas made her feel so lonely and nostalgic for what she'd once been: a happy little girl, frolicking down the stairs to see Father Christmas (really, Uncle Roger). Her mum baking pies in the oven. The Christmas turkey. It had been years since Molly had a Christmas turkey, now that she thought about it.

Molly was a little early, so she took a bit of a detour and peeked into shops. Most had closed early for the night, and she caught her reflection in a window, bundled up in her coat and silly knit cap.

For just a second, she thought she saw a glimpse of her mum, dad and Nan, looking just like she remembered as a child. All gone now. Only her and cousin Di left. In her little vision, they smiled and waved at her. She blinked back a couple of tears, and when she looked up again, they were gone.

Molly missed them dreadfully. For a split second, she debated whether or not she should really go to Baker Street. She didn't particularly relish the idea of Sherlock seeing her in a state of melancholy. She remembered the wretched night after the party, when she attended the morgue the night The Woman came through. That was awful.

After sitting on a bench for a minute to compose herself, Molly decided that she should just go over to Sherlock's and get the hell back home as soon as possible. Have a sausage butty and a glass of wine and get back to bed. She sniffed and wiped her eyes.

Molly rang the doorbell. Mrs Hudson opened the door and greeted her with a massive smile and hug. Lovely smells emanated from the building and wafted toward Molly's nose. She supposed Mrs Hudson had family over, or something. Deliciousness. Perhaps she could sneak a bit on her way out of whatever Sherlock wanted.

"Molly, dear! It's lovely to see you! Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas, Mrs Hudson."

"SHERLOCK! SHE'S HERE!" Mrs Hudson turned around and hollered up the stairs. "SHERLOCK!"

"Send her up, Mrs Hudson," a booming voice called from the next floor.

Mrs Hudson examined Molly's face, noticing the faint tearstains. She tut-tutted a bit and patted her on the back. "Are you having a bad day, love?"

"I'm…it's a hard time of the year for me," Molly said, with a weak smile.

"Sherlock's worked so hard all afternoon and I had to help the dear boy here and there," Mrs Hudson rambled, "but I think you are a very lucky young lady."

"What are you talking about, Mrs Hudson?"

"Oh, dear me. I have to check on that…roast…well, go on up, girl!" She twirled Molly around 180 degrees and nudged her toward the stairs.

Molly walked up to Sherlock's flat and timidly knocked on the door. What she saw in front of her absolutely floored her.

Sherlock had decorated the flat quite festively: the bison skull was decked out in fairylights and holly; there were lovely swags of greenery over the fireplace, which had a fire in it. In front of it stood Sherlock, in that bloody sexy purple shirt, having a glass of port. The light in the mirror reflected a beautiful, twinkling glow.

"Ah, Molly. There you are. And right on time, too."

"What is this?" Molly asked, looking around the flat. The kitchen smelt of roast turkey and assorted side dishes. In fact, the scent reminded her of her lovely Nan's house at Christmas.

"Present."

"Present?"

"Yes."

"Who all is coming? You told me no party."

"You were the only one I invited. Come here. Let me take your coat." He laid his glass of port next to Skull and took Molly's coat, draping it over his desk chair.

"Sherlock," she began, beginning to feel that old embarrassing stammer make its return. She sat down in the chair in front of the roaring fire.

Sherlock continued, pouring Molly a glass of port.

"I am very sorry for my monstrous behaviour the other week."

"You were a bit of a creature, weren't you?"

"Mmhmm. Molly, I know this is a difficult time of year for you. You needn't explain. I understand completely. It's always etched on your face, in your behaviour."

Molly felt a lump rise in her throat. Of course he knew. Bloody bastard knew everything. She tried to force it out of her by gulping down port.

"Molly, Mike Stamford told me what happened between you and…what's his name."

"Oh." Suddenly her face fell. 'Why did you invite me over, then? To crow about it? To tell me I'm a failure, again? To mock my choice in men? That's all you've ever done. As if I'm not as clever or observant as you, making these dumb mistakes."

"Molly, that's not –"

"Oh, what is it, then?"

Sherlock sank into the chair opposite hers, took a sip of port, and stared at her for a solid minute. It unnerved her, but she couldn't bring herself to speak any more.

"I wanted to return the present."

"What present?"

"I…I was going through my things this week and came across an unopened present in my desk, over there. I realised, with great regret, that I had completely forgotten to open it three years ago, or ever thank you. And I apologise, Molly. That was abominably rude."

"Oh, don't worry about it. It was nothing. I don't even remember – "

"You're lying, Molly Hooper. It was an extraordinary gift, and I am terribly sorry if I inadvertently offended you. I will always treasure it."

"It…it was passed from my grandfather to my father," she admitted, feeling the lump rise again. "I don't have any brothers, and I didn't know of anyone who would appreciate it as much as you would." She had given him a lovely old ivory men's toilet kit. "I thought you hated it, or you had a girlfriend. I was so mortified."

"Molly, I am so very sorry. I knew it had some sentmental value to you the minute I opened it. And I…well, I wanted to, as I said, return your present. Your long-overdue present."

"Oh, you didn't have to…"

"Oh, yes, I did."

Sherlock got up, took Molly's hand in his, and turned on the kitchen light, revealing a lovely table setting and Christmas crackers waiting patiently in the middle of the table.

"Sit here. Don't turn around until I tell you. MRS HUDSON!" Sherlock stamped the floor.

"COME ON DOWN, SHERLOCK!" called a voice from downstairs.

"Excuse me," Sherlock said to Molly, with a small smile. "Don't turn around until you're directed. I mean it."

Five minutes later, she heard four sets of footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Alright, Molly, here is your present."

To Molly's delight, Sherlock, Mrs Hudson, John, and Mary were standing in the doorway, each holding a bowl or platter of food. Sherlock proudly held a freshly-carved roast turkey, beaming with obvious pleasure. The three others wished Molly a happy Christmas, giving her hugs and kisses, and then, with a wink, Mrs Hudson took the other two downstairs.

Sherlock gracefully placed some turkey on her plate as Molly finally burst into a broad smile for the first time since the breakup.

"I remembered you muttering something in the lab some time back about not having a proper Christmas meal in years, and I put two and two together," he said gently. He sat across from her. "I'm so happy you're pleased. I haven't cooked in so long."

"Pleased?" Molly said, her eyes shining. 'This is the most thoughtful gift I've ever been given. You made all of this?"

"Yes. Well, Mrs Hudson let me use her cooker. I didn't want to eat anything from ours. Experiments…" Molly nodded, understanding. Thank heavens for Mrs Hudson.

The two ate in companionable chatter as they gleefully tucked into their feast. The others downstairs had an identical meal, Sherlock explained. They opened up a bottle of wine and polished that down soon enough. Molly couldn't remember a more enjoyable meal with anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes.

After they had stuffed themselves full of food and drink, Sherlock treated Molly to an original composition he'd written for violin, and she thrilled to it. She'd never heard him play before. He was mesmerizing, his body melded against that instrument, unveiling a side he rarely showed. Every emotion Sherlock had came through his violin.

After the song, Molly wiped her eyes, as Sherlock bounced into the kitchen like an 8 year old. He cheerfully dug into the bowl holding the crackers and, returning to the fireplace, handed one to Molly.

"Go ahead," he urged, smiling. "I'll open mine first. Let's see who can solve the riddle first."

"Challenge accepted."

Ten minutes later Molly had long solved her cracker riddle, but Sherlock was still standing by the fireplace, drunkenly trying to work out his. He became increasingly flustered as each possibility for the answer escaped him. This was worse than Cluedo.

"No, no, don't tell me," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. Molly had to laugh at the sight of him in his tissue paper crown. "Fine. I admit defeat. I really have no bloody idea what one Christmas bell would say to the other Christmas bell."

"_Give me a ring sometime,"_ Molly replied, adjusting her own crown, laughing merrily. "Tonight, I am the resident Christmas genius!"

"I would like to kiss you," Sherlock announced.

"What?"

"I would like to kiss you. If that's alright. May I, Molly Hooper?"

Without waiting for an answer, he dipped down to kneel in front of her, taking her hands in his. She swallowed when she realised he meant it, despite the alcohol flowing through them. He leaned forward, placed his hands on her cheeks, and gently placed his lips on hers. For the first time in either's life, they felt complete.

"You are a much better kisser than Richard Armitage," Molly murmured, with a chuckle.

"Who the bloody hell is Richard Armitage?" Sherlock spluttered.

"No one either of us will ever meet," Molly laughed. Tired and blissful, Sherlock laid his head in her lap. They sat like this, unmoving, for some time.

"Molly?" he finally whispered.

"Mmm?"

"Do you have any spare spleens in the freezer?"

"Yes, dearest."

The great Sherlock Holmes had at last been truly tamed by a small, unassuming creature, and she had finally gotten that real fairy tale ending she'd always secretly wanted. A few minutes later, he turned his face back up to the beaming one above him. She had never looked lovelier.

"Stay. For good."

"Alright."

And with that, she did. For good.


End file.
